Take My Hand, Take My Whole Life Too
by MelodyMoonchild
Summary: John takes a trip down memory lane, and it has 'Sherlock' written all over it. Based on the song Can't Help Falling in Love.


Take My Hand (Take My Whole Life Too)

_Wise men say, only fools rush in._

"We've only just met, and now we're going to go look at a flat?" I say.  
A phrase from an old song my mum used to listen to flashes through my mind, "Wise men say, only fools rush in," and if this isn't rushing, then I don't know what is. But that was a love song, and this is just about a flat.  
There's certainly something very weird about this man, but I'd do anything to be able to stay in London, and after all – this man might be just what I need.

_But I can't help falling in love_

I walk around aimlessly in a foggy London, trying to memorize a few new streets at the same time. I'm picking up on Sherlock's habits, whether that's good or bad can be discussed.  
I was right, all those months ago, Sherlock turned out to be exactly what I needed, and I'm so glad I didn't move out the first time I discovered one of his _experiments _in our refrigerator. It was a close call, though, and God knows what my life might have looked like without Sherlock.  
Speaking of Sherlock, he's been looking at me weirdly for about a month now, like he's trying to figure something out. I have no idea what he's up to, but I do know that since Sherlock came into my life, I've been happier than ever.  
I turn right around a corner and discover it's a dead end, so I draw my jacket tighter around myself as protection against the chilly autumn wind. I decide to head back to the flat.

_... Falling in love with you_

Sherlock's leaning over the corpse of a woman in her fifties, examining the body closely through his magnifier. She was discovered dead in an empty parking lot early this morning, and there is no obvious cause of death.  
"What do you think, John? You're the doctor, after all", he says, and I can feel myself blushing slightly, it's nice to hear that he actually values my opinion every now and then.  
"John?" his eyes flicker up from the magnifier, then he returns to examining an old scar on her upper arm, but something he saw in my face during that brief second seems to change his mind, because he lowers the magnifier and looks curiously up at me. He's examining me with that same look that he's used on me for the past few months. His steely grey eyes narrow, and then scan every millimetre of my face thoroughly. I try to straighten out my face, but I can still feel a faint heat spread up to my ears.  
I clear my throat, "Hmm? Yes, sorry. Can I use your magnifier?" I ask, and then I lean in and push all thoughts of Sherlock's sparkling eyes and prominent cheekbones out of my mind.  
"This is work", I think to myself, as I dive into a world of deductions.

_Shall I stay? Would it be a sin?  
_

I can barely look at Sherlock without blushing any more, and I always discover something new and wonderful about his appearance every time I dare a glance at him. I'm certain that what I feel for him is, in fact, love. That's right; I, John Watson, have fallen in love with an emotionally handicapped sociopath.

A while after we first met, when he thought I was in love with him, he told me that he was flattered, but not interested in a relationship, which makes this romance utterly hopeless. And if he knew, it would most likely complicate things a great deal, therefore it's crucial that he won't find out about it. My heart sinks a bit every time I think about my love for him, which is nearly all the time, because I know it can never be returned.  
I should probably move out of the flat, it would be a lot easier, and Sherlock would never have to know that I love him... but then again, where would I go? What would I do? My life with Sherlock is all I know.  
I finish typing the blog post and click "Save as draft", but then change my mind and click "Delete" instead, since Sherlock doesn't seem to have a problem with cracking the password to my computer. My drafts are full of all the things I don't post.

_Like a river flows, surely to the sea._

We're examining a body by the side of the Thames together, a man that's drowned and been washed ashore.  
Sherlock scowls. "You don't just _fall _into the Thames, John. Not unless you're drunk or drugged, and the victim was neither of those, which means he was pushed."  
"But why didn't he swim ashore?"  
"Would you be able to swim in those clothes? No, exactly. And you're still quite fit, but this man has gathered on a few pounds too much, most likely from alcohol. Add the shockingly cold water to that, and you have the reason for his death. All we have to do now is to find out who pushed him."  
I stopped listening after "you're still quite fit", and I can once again feel a familiar heat creeping up my cheeks. Sherlock notices it, of course, and I curse my body for betraying me.  
As Sherlock studies my face, I calm myself down with a thought: even though Sherlock might be able to read me, there's one thing he isn't able to read – emotions. So as long as he doesn't start checking my pulse or something, I should be fine.

_Darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be._

"John, there's obviously something you've been wanting to tell me for months, so I suggest you spit it out", Sherlock says when we're (well, I'm) having dinner at a Chinese restaurant.  
I give up my poor attempt of eating the rice with my chopsticks, and instead I close my eyes and clench my fists under the table. "Very well then", I clear my throat, "I... I think I'm in love with you, Sherlock." My hands are shaking.  
Sherlock's response isn't expected at all. He presses his fingertips together, the way he sometimes does when he's thinking. "I'm not very familiar with the nature of feelings, but I'm fairly certain that what I feel for you could be called love too."  
I must look very stricken. "But you told me that you're married to your work, and that you're not.. not looking for a relationship?" I sound stricken too.  
"Yes, I'm aware of that, John. But it's you we're talking about here, we're practically married already." Sherlock smiles, a sight not often seen, and then he catches my eyes. A ray of sunlight from the setting sun hits his eyes, and they turn into glowing diamonds. This is probably the most human I've ever seen him.

_Take my hand..._

I lie awake next to Sherlock tonight, playing up old memories in my head. I've gotten Sherlock to get some sleep, for once. He looks so peaceful, yet so vulnerable, while sleeping, holding on to me tightly. It's actually very cute how affectionate he is while sleeping.

I think about the first time I held Sherlock's hand, before I even realized I was in love with him. We had been running through London, trying to catch a cab where I had left a piece of evidence, when our path had been blocked by a fairly high wall. Sherlock climbed it easily, but seeing that I still had some troubles with my leg, he reached his hand towards me, and said "Take my hand!"  
That was when I first felt the sparkly feeling. I didn't recognize it then, but Sherlock did. He knew I was in love before I even knew it myself.

_… Take my whole life too._

I'm standing on the street, watching my life literally fall into ruins as Sherlock steps out from the ledge, and then starts falling towards the ground. Sherlock's been so close to me for so long, that somewhere along the road, he became my world. He didn't need to know that the earth goes around the sun, he just knew that my world revolved around him, and that was enough. But my world just lost it's sun, and it's spinning out of control. My whole life cracks as Sherlock hits the pavement, and I don't want to believe my eyes.  
I don't know how I got here, but I'm desperately trying to cling to Sherlock's body, while people are trying to drag me away. They don't understand, I can't leave him. My world is growing black at the edges, but I get to hold on to Sherlock's hand and whisper a quiet "I love you" one last time. Then I can't see or hear anything more, I can just feel the tears rolling down my cheeks, as two words echo in my head. He's dead.

_For I can't help falling in love with you._

I don't know who thought it'd be fun to hire a violinist to play at Sherlock's funeral. All I know is that it breaks me completely, and that I'm crying in front of the few people who are there. Mycroft couldn't even bother to attend his own brother's funeral, he's probably busy starting a war or something. Luckily for me, the press isn't allowed to attend the funeral.  
The small group of people consists mainly of people from the police, and a few friends. Lestrade is there, so are Donovan, Molly and Mrs. Hudson.

When the funeral is over, they come up to me one by one and tell me that they're so sorry for my loss, or that they hope he'll rest in peace, or that they're there if I need to talk to someone. What do they think I've got a therapist for? Lestrade even gives me a hug and pats my back, "I knew Sherlock, he wasn't lying." It's meant to be comforting, I know, but for some reason, it doesn't comfort me at all.  
When I look out over the graveyard, I spot something underneath a couple of trees. I can't believe my eyes when I see Sherlock's coat retreat further into the shadows. But it can't be Sherlock, the figure's much too short and slim. It's probably the shock that makes me see things that aren't there. The shock of having to watch your soulmate being lowered into the ground inside a coffin, and not knowing when you'll get to join him in the grave.

You see, the thing with Sherlock Holmes is that it's easy to forget that he's an ordinary mortal, because you feel like he should have died a thousand times already, but somehow he always manages to survive. Until now.

_Falling in love, I keep falling in love._

My limp is back again, but I force myself to go out for walks. I still live in our flat, but I tend to stay away from home as much as possible.

I still see him everywhere, lying on the sofa, reading a book; or pacing back and forth in the livingroom. Sometimes I wake up at night, absolutely certain that Sherlock's playing the violin again, only to be met with silence. Sometimes I see his coat disappear behind a corner when I'm out walking, and I always rush as fast as I possibly can with my cane to catch up with Sherlock, only to find an empty street when I turn around the corner.  
Deep down, I know it's stupid, because millions of people must have a similar coat to Sherlock's – I just can't help myself.  
I just want him back, that's all I want. I still talk to his grave every day, and every day I have a strange feeling of being watched.  
"I love you, Sherlock. I just wish you wouldn't have had so many arch-enemies." A tear slides down my cheek and lands on the grass in front of the stone, but otherwise my face remains emotionless.  
When I walk home from the graveyard, I hear the sound of a violin coming out of an open window, and my heart starts beating a little faster.

I just can't help it, and I never will.


End file.
